


slow and abrupt change

by esama



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Frottage, Healing, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Movie(s), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:50:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9225548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: In which Newt helps Graves get started on his recovery after his captivity.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> unbetaed

Newt fiddles idly with his shirt cuffs, trying to not look at anything too hard. Everything is so neat here, everything it's proper place. He feels as if he's making a mess of it, just by being here, like just too strong breath might shift everything out of order.

So he tries to sit as still as he can, not look at everything – except he rather has to because it's all so interesting. Long lines of strict glass cabinets, full of al sorts of fascinating things. Some of them he can recognise – foe-glasses, sneakoscopes, other sensors he's seen in Theseus office. There's lanterns and globes and things that look like gyroscopes that he cannot even begin to imagine the use of, there are planetary models, and there are numerous crystal spheres and things that look like trophies but probably have actual use. All of it gleams golden and somehow dangerous in the smooth lighting of the office.

Absently Newt checks to make sure his suitcase is well locked. He might've trapped the niffler in his nest, just for this meeting, but he knows from experience that sort of thing won't hold the sneaky thing for long. And this place… it's prime spot for bit of pilfering.

It's a small wonder it hadn't, when Graves – or rather Grindelwald – had according to Queenie just left the suitcase on his desk, unsupervised, during the whole… hearing and execution debacle. It still makes Newt a little ill to think of it, all his creatures at the mercy of that man.

There's a click behind him and newt's back straightens with a muffled snap and he looks over his shoulder. Graves – the _real_ Director Graves – steps inside, glancing at him. The man still has a slight limb and one of his arms is in a sling, but somehow he manages to wear his injuries with dignity Newt knows he's never managed.

"Mr. Scamander," the man says in greeting, one of his eyebrows arching slightly.

Newt hesitantly stands up from the chair he'd been sitting on. "Director Graves," he says and stomps on the urge to check on his fingernails. "Ah, your secretary let me in, seeing that… I had a meeting."

"Right," Graves answers slowly, looking him up and down. "Well I suppose introductions aren't necessary," the man says and then limps past Newt and around his desk, where he pulls the chair back with spot of wandless magic and sits down. The relief isn't visible on his face, Newt doesn't think, but he can see it on the man's shoulders, how they ease under the severe coat.

Newt sits down as well, and he's ended up fiddling with his nails after all. "Ah, you wanted to see me?" he says awkwardly.

"I'm attempting to untangle the… aftermath of the whole Grindelwald incident. You're a loose thread," Graves says and takes out a wand. He taps it against his desk and a drawer opens on his side. From it, he takes out a folder. "Auror Goldstein has filled in the essentials but there are pieces missing, which only you and the Nomaj… Jacob Kowalski, are privy to, and seeing that Kowalski has had his memory modified, you're the only one left to be questioned."

"Yes, of course," Newt says with a swallow and glances between his own hands and the folder. His own image is there – the one MACUSA took for his records during the arrest and which they then plastered all over the place in his wanted posters. Idly he wonders if he could ask one of those for himself – a keepsake.

It wasn't every day you got a legitimate wanted poster of yourself after all.

"I'll… try and answer as honestly I can," Newt offers. "It was a little hectic for a while there, however and I might have forgotten details."

"Just keep to the simple facts," Graves says and takes out not a quill, but a pen, black with golden highlights. Elegant, just as everything else in the office. "Now, when was it you arrived in New York, exactly?"

Newt ducks his head and eyes hands. "It was four days ago, now," he says. "I came on board a muggle ocean liner, the _HMS Temeresi._  We disembarked around nine am in New York harbour."

"And your reason for coming to New York…" Graves says and leafs through pages, checking on notes. "Was it to purchase appaloosa puffskeins or was it to release the thunderbird?"

Newt shrugs one shoulder. "Both, really. I did intend to purchase a puffskein, I think I might still have the newspaper ad about them somewhere, too – but apparently the breeder's been shut down…" he trails off, a little unhappy about that. He really had wanted to buy one. Not only was he curious about the effects of Fleury's breeding program, but it really would've made a perfect gift for his brother. Theseus would've gotten such a laugh from it.

"Hm," Graves answers, jotting it down. "Where, exactly, did you get the thunderbird?"

Newt hesitates. "Is that… vital information?" he asks. "Madam Picquery promised that my case and all in it got a free pass, so as long as took them and myself out of New York inside a week.

That makes Graves look up at him with a slight frown on his face.

"I rescued him from traffickers, in Egypt, couple of months back," Newt mumbles and looks away. "There was an auction and – it's really a quite a long story."

Graves arches an eyebrow at him and then writes it down. "Moving right along then. What did you do between disembarking the ship and the incident at Steen National Bank."

Newt sighs. This is going to be a long interrogation, he muses even as he explains the meandering walk he'd taken through New York, taking in the sights, in no particular hurry to reach his destination. It was his first time in the city – he'd been fascinated by it. It was quite on a scale of it's own, after all.

"And then I arrived at Steen bank – well, I was going past it, rather. I had no need or intention of actually visiting the bank itself," Newt continues. "I got tangled up in that New Salem Philanthropic Society meeting that was going on in front and during it… my Niffler escaped."

"From where we get to the incident," Graves says, frowning slightly. "First, however – the Second Salemers. Did you… sense anything unusual about them?"

Newt frowns and looks up, at Graves' hand resting on top of the folder and the notes, gripping the pen. The man has clean nails, cuticles trimmed finely. "Did I sense Credence, you mean?" Newt clarifies.

"You seem to have previous experiences with obscurials – the girl from Sudan you've mentioned on several occasions," the other man says.

Newt shakes his head. "When contained within the living host, the obscurus doesn't feel like anything. If it has a discernible feel to it at all, then it feels like _absence_ , and that's something you can only detect if you're looking for it," he says. "No, I didn't sense anything. Though I can't say being called out by magic hating muggle society wasn't startling enough."

"Scourers, is the term," Graves says and turns a page. "Your niffler seems to get out a lot, judging by the incidents.

Newt sighs heavily. "Oh I know. He's a terrible menace and sometimes I don't know what to do about him."

"How about getting rid of him?" Graves offers, looking at him from under his brows.

Newt startles and throws him an offended look. "I would _never_."

That almost gets a smile out of the man. "It was during your incident with the niffler at the bank when you lost your suitcase to the nomaj?"

"Yes – Jacob has a suitcase that looks exactly like mine from the outside," Newt mutters, leaning back a little and giving the man a distrustful look. "I ended up bringing his pastries here when Tina brought me in while he took my creatures home with him. It really was only a mix up, never meant to happen."

"Mm-hmm," Graves agrees. "List for me all the creatures that escaped."

It goes on like that for a while, Graves wanting not only full list of events, but their effects, damages caused and any possible witnesses if possible. At this point lot of it has already been repaired, of course, but it seems that the actual sequence of events is, at least for Graves, still unclear. It all eventually leads to Newt and Jacob being snatched by Tina and taken to the MACUSA – and right into a ICW meeting.

"I think you have records of all of it," Newt mutters, still stinging a bit from the way his case had been just… taken. The pounding fear somewhere in the back of his throat had lingered even after he'd gotten Tina out and Queenie had appeared, like a miracle, with his case in hand.

"Some of it," Graves corrects and lifts his pen from the paper. He's looking at Newt now, frowning even deeper than before. "I'm curious, though – do you know what happened?"

Newt blinks at that and glances up. "We were captured, questioned, and sentenced to death, after which we escaped?" he asks.

"And you don't question any of that?" Graves asks slowly, eyebrows lifting slightly.

Newt glances up at his eyes, unable to help it – the man has expressive face, it's hard not to notice it. Quickly he looks away again. "We didn't really have the time for questions," he offers, uneasily. "It all seemed to happen so fast."

"Hmm," Graves hums, watching him, looking a little displeased. "The executioners present at your interrogation with _Grindelwald_ were under imperius curses, both of them – and he did not have the authority to sentence you to death on the power of single, very one sided interrogation," the man says grimly. "It was all unauthorised. I hope you understand that. He didn't sentence you do death – he tried to murder you, because you knew too much."

Newt digests that for a moment and then nods. "That… does make sense," he murmurs softly.

Graves watches him for a moment, as if to make sure he does understand. "Even if you had committed a offence severe enough for punishment of that magnitude on MACUSA's jurisdiction, we still wouldn't sentence you to death, Mr. Scamander. You're _British_. It would be tantamount to political suicide to just up and execute a British citizen without any back and forth between us and the Ministry of Magic. If might even be considered act of war."

Frowning, Newt looks up at him. "I understand," he says slowly. "I didn't exactly think Grindelwald was acting according to law."

Graves leans back a little. "The fact that you're still not objecting to it unnerves me," he says. "You came perilously close to being killed under MACUSA's nose, in our very own execution chambers. You should be furious. Auror Goldstein certainly is."

Newt looks away again, smiling a little. Oh Tina. "I will experience my outrageous fury vicariously through her, then," he offers and shakes his head. "I am not angry at MACUSA, Mr. Graves. The Magical Congress is as much a victim here as am I. And I'm happy to just put the whole thing behind me."

Graves all but scowls at him, looking like he wants to object. In the end, he doesn't and turns back to the notes. "Very well then – what happened after you, Auror Goldstein, Ms. Goldstein and the nomaj escaped from MACUSA?"

And so it continues – the rooftops of New York to the Blind Pig where they first saw their wanted posters and where they met with Gnarlak. Newt frowns a little and absently checks his pocket – but Pickett is in the suitcase now, perfectly safe in his home tree with the rest of the bowtruckles. "I had two more creatures to find," Newt says. "A demiguise and, though I didn't know it at the time, an occamy. Tina suggested that one of her contacts, a trader in magical creatures, might know how to help… so we went into his pub. Or I guess a speakeasy? Or whatever they are called."

"The Blind Pig?" Graves guesses.

"Hm," Newt nods. "Interesting sort of place. I doubt I'd ever visit again, however."

"Gnarlak gave you up to the MACUSA," Graves says, shifting papers again. "That might be in small part my fault – he is not only Auror Goldstein's contacts but mine as well, and he owes me a long list of favours."

"I did get a feel that he knew you. Or Grindelwald," Newt agrees with a sign and shakes his head. "Anyway, we got out of there, and eventually tracked my demiguise and the occamy down to a muggle store, and contained both of them. That was last of my creatures."

"And that was around the same time the obscurus started tearing through the city," Graves says, noting something down. "Tell me, Mr. Scamander – did you have any thoughts on the subject then?"

"The obscurus?" Newt asks and makes a face. It had been so hectic – he'd been so desperate to get his creatures back and into safety and then there was the obscurus – and Graves, Grindelwald, and whatever he was up to. "I didn't know enough then. All I knew was the obscurus was moving and it was… more powerful than any obscurus I had seen or read about."

"And Grindelwald – or rather, myself as he pretended to be me?" Graves asks, the slightest tightening of his fingers around his pen betraying his emotions.

"I thought he might be one of Grindelwald's followers, then, especially so after we met on the square and he attacked Tina and I," Newt muses. "But I can't say I was sure of anything, there wasn't any time to think. All I knew was that the obscurial was the Second Salem boy, and that he was in desperate need of help. And I wanted to help. I knew if I didn't… he'd stand the risk of being killed by MACUSA. I couldn't let it happen."

He can feel Graves' eyes on him and quickly looks away. For a long while the Auror doesn't say anything, and the silence stretches. "How did you figure out it was Grindelwald?" the man finally asks.

"He started making speeches," Newt says and runs a hand over his face. It doesn't shake – good. "I've heard them before. Just before I disembarked in the harbour, a letter arrived from my brother, he mentioned Grindelwald so they were fresh enough in my mind."

"You've heard his speeches before?" Graves asks slowly.

"I travel a lot – I saw a rally in Germany once," Newt shrugs, making a face at the memory. He'd been bedridden at the time – and the rally had happened just below his window. It had been… beyond bizarre. "Also he was active during the war – lot of his speeches were recorded. Propaganda, you know. He wasn't quite as vocal about his beliefs back then, but… they have the same quality."

"I see," Graves says, watching him. His eyebrows arch. "We're _you_ active in the war?"

Newt's lips twitch, not quite a smile. He knows he doesn't really look like it. But then, who does, really? Outside uniform, everyone looks like a civilian. "I did my part," he says and looks up. "Was there anything else you wanted to know, Mr. Graves?"

"Actually, yes," the man says and then frowns. "Swooping evil venom?" he asks.

"It worked, didn't I?" Newt offers. It had been bit of a miracle really, but he had had every confidence in Frank. Thunderbirds are, after all, incredibly intelligent and semi-prescient.

"How did you know it would work?" Graves asks. "I've been looking into it, there is no record of that sort of use for swooping evil venom anywhere. We even contacted a witch known to have _bred_ them in her youth and she had no idea."

Newt clears his throat awkwardly. "Ah, it's… mixture of local folk lore from where I got mine, and ah… experimentation," he admits and glances at Graves uncertainly to see his reaction – and then away again because it's not a good one.

"What did you test it on?" Graves asks slowly.

"Um… myself?" Newt offers. "Who else?"

The man stares at him silently, his expressive eyebrows arched up in incredulity. "Who else," he repeats. "That sounds vaguely concerning. Are you in habit of testing animal venoms on yourself?"

Newt looks at his hands, picking nervously at his nails. Ah, right. It wasn't something people… did. Right. "I work with magical creatures with very potent defence mechanisms," he says finally. "Some of those defence mechanisms have sadly not been studied extensively. So yes. Sometimes I test them on myself. How else will I find out what the effects truly are?"

Graves just shakes his head at him. "I'm starting to believe the report that you have a _nundu_ in your suitcase," the man says and runs a hand over his face. "Alright, Mr. Scamander. I suppose we're through here. Thank you for your cooperation," he then says and grabs the pen again to sign the notes he'd been making before closing the book and capping them pen with a smooth use of wandless magic.

"Alright," Newt says slowly. "I'm happy to help. Um…" he hesitates. "Did Grindelwald do much damage here? Or is that confidential?"

Graves glances at him. "Well I can tell you what the papers will soon find out. He imperiused and obliviated people with a liberal hand," he says and looks down at his notes. There's a weary look about him now, but his shoulders are tense. "So yes, you can imagine there is a bit of damage."

Newt eyes his hand, his shoulders, the arm in sling. He has his hands squeezed into firsts. Helpless fury, he muses and looks down. He had wondered… how Grindelwald had managed to go for so long so undetected. How no one who knew the real Percival Graves hadn't found out. Well now he has his answer.

"I know it doesn't help much, but you have my sympathies," Newt says quietly. "I really am sorry for what happened."

"You had no hand in it – but I appreciate it," Graves says with a sigh and then stands up. "You're free to go, Mr. Scamander."

Newt hesitates and then stands up, taking his suitcase as he does. "I don't… I suppose there isn't anything I can do to help?" he offers, though he seriously doubts it. He doesn't even know how MACUSA works, and he doesn't know this man, not really but… that doesn't mean he can't try.

Graves looks like he means to object but stops. He looks at Newt and then glances at his notes and then he gives a wry smile. "I don't suppose you have any of that swooping evil venom left?"


	2. Chapter 2

Graves runs a hand over his face, looking down to the images spread across his desk. The whole Grindelwald debacle is more or less untangled now and he is vaguely ashamed of his department. Grindelwald was a powerful, brilliant wizard, true enough, and his act had been damn close to perfect. Those that had noticed anything amiss had been swiftly had their mind changed by the madman, and yet…

The longer he looks at the list of people who _had_ noticed anything, the shorter it seems. The Goldstein sisters, a junior Auror who Graves hadn't even known the name of, only one of the entire team of obliviators – the executors. Picquery had refused to be mentally screened for manipulation, as was her right as the President, but judging by her expression at the time the answer was obvious.

It's a small wonder Grindelwald hadn't done more damage than he already had. Strange to think of it, but they were lucky the man had aimed to be subtle – until he didn't.

With his lone perfectly functioning hand, graves shifted the images around until he found the one they had of the obscurial – Credence Barebone. The boy stands hunched and awkward in dim light of the image, unmoving – a nomaj picture. He looks a little like a beaten animal. Apparently not far from the truth.

According to Auror Goldstein, there had been… a relationship.

Mercy Lewis, what a mess.

There's a knock on his office door and Graves glances up. "Come in," he calls and his secretary peeks in carefully.

"Um, sir – I'm about to head home for the night," Ms. Cole says carefully. "Is there something you need?"

Graves eyes her for a moment. He doesn't know her – Grindelwald had fired his original secretary and replaced her with someone far less competent. It's not Ms. Cole's fault – she'd only taken the job offered to her and she probably did best she could with it. But she was no Mrs. Lockwood.

"No, there's nothing," Graves says at last and looks down. "I expect I'll be heading out soon myself. You may go, Ms. Cole. Good night."

"Good night, sir," she pipes nervously and then ducks out of the office, banging it slightly in her haste to get away.

Graves smothers a sigh, shaking his head. It wasn't her fault, but he would have to get rid of her sooner or later and she probably knew it. The typing pool might have here, if she was good at it, but she was painfully unsuitable for him. Well. Another thing to consider later.

Standing up he starts putting the papers back into their folders, compiling everything slowly and methodically with one hand. He could have done it fast with a single flick of his wand, he knows, but doing it by hand gives him time to think. For a while he wonders if he should bring the folders home with him, to peruse later on, to give himself more time to wrap his head around the whole enormous mess of it…

But he's never brought his work home with him and he's not about to start now, no matter how much easier it would be to have that to distract himself.

So in the end Graves puts the folders away and locks his desk. He then spends a moment checking over his office – everything is in order here at least, Grindelwald had known better than to make a mess of his public appearance. He isn't sure if he appreciates it.

Silent, Graves locks his office and heads out, walking through the dark offices and towards the elevators. He'll walk tonight, he decides as he passes the fireplaces. Take his time with it, get used to being out and about again.

And if he's doing everything in his power avoid going home for as long as he can, well, that's his problem.

"Good evening, sir," Red greets him at the elevators. "Heading home?"

"Evening," Graves greets him and steps into the elevator. For a moment he entertains the thought of asking, _did you notice anything_. He swallows it, like he has swallowed it with every other person in MACUSA he's met since coming back as it were. "The first floor if you please, Red," he says instead and tries not to sway. Less than thirty steps and his knee is already starting to pound with pain.

"Right you are, sir," the goblin says and hits the right button.

Thankfully Red does him the courtesy of not bothering with small talk, and the elevator ride is blissfully free of social interaction. When the elevator pulls to a halt, the goblin merely opens the doors for him and simply bids him goodnight.

"Till tomorrow, Red," Graves says and limps out of the elevator.

He's been so late in the office that the forayer is almost empty and the few people there look like they're in hurry to head home. Few bid him wary good night, but no one stops to talk with him for which he is immensely grateful. The leg is quickly getting worse. Maybe walking wasn't such a good idea after all.

He's just about to head out when a voice tentatively calls, "Director Graves?" from somewhere to the side. Graves looks up with a slight frown and there is Mr. Scamander, sitting on one of the benches looking at the Salem Memorial.

"Mr. Scamander," Graves says slowly as he shifts his weight off the aching knee.. "You're up and about late."

"I could say the same about you," the man says and bounces to his feet. He's an awkward thing, Mr. Scamander, standing up a little hunched like he's trying to make himself small, never meeting anyone's eyes. "I, ah, I have something for you but I wasn't sure…" the man mumbles and then turns back to the bench.

Graves arches an eyebrow. It looks a little like the man had all but camped there – he has at least four notebooks out, and writing utensils – an actual quill, it's stem bent at an angle. The infamous suitcase is there too, of course, sitting on floor, looking almost innocent. "How long have you been waiting?" Graves asks. "If you had something for me, you could have had it brought to my office."

"Well, ah, the thing is –" Mr. Scamander mumbles and stacks up his notebooks, tucking them under his arm before shoving the quill and ink bottle in his coat pocket. He leaves a smear of ink across his fingers as he does it. "I really couldn't – and since they refused to let me in again, ah… It's just something I really should hand over in person. And explain. In length."

"Alright," Graves says slowly. "What is it then?"

Mr. Scamander looks up at him – at his tie – hesitantly. "The… swooping evil venom?"

Graves stares at him – and then he remembers. "Mr. Scamander – I was joking," he says slowly. Well, he had been half joking – wistfully joking, really. Would if he could, he might very well use something like that, and just… wipe away the last couple of months, just erase them from his memory. But he can't.

He's the Director of Magical Security, he can't just go tampering with his own mind. Especially not now.

"Oh," Scamander says and looks down, frowning uncertainly. "Ah, I… sometimes I can't tell," he murmurs and turns away. "Well, I guess I'll just…"

"Did you really prepare the venom for me just because I asked you to?" Graves asks curiously.

Scamander nods, obviously embarrassed. "It didn't cost me anything and sometimes being able to forget is one of the nicest things you can have," he says. "I certainly wouldn't judge someone for going for that option."

Well that's a telling statement. Especially in the light of the knowledge that the man had tested and experimented on himself with the damn stuff. "Right," Graves says slowly. "How often, exactly, have you used that stuff on yourself, Mr. Scamander?"

The man shakes his head, opening his suitcase and dropping his notebooks inside. Graves half expects to hear a clatter of them tumbling down the ladder – but there's nothing, and the magizoologist closes the suitcase again. "I haven't used it myself beyond testing it," Scamander says and takes the suitcase in hand. "But there have been people, and creatures, I dearly wish I could've given it to."

Graves nods slowly and Scamander fiddles with the suitcase nervously. "Well," the Brit says. "I'll… just be off your hair then. I'm sorry for the… the misunderstanding."

"Mr. Scamander, wait," Graves sighs before the man can head off. "I… appreciate the sentiment," he offers, because he honestly does. It's more than anyone else has given to him – better than all the empty platitudes and apologies. "I'm sorry I put you through such trouble."

"Oh, it wasn't trouble at all – I mean, I literally have this stuff just… lying around," Scamander says and then frowns at his suitcase like he's not sure if he should be saying it to the Director of MagSec. He clears his throat and glances up. "I suppose you're heading home then. Am I keeping you?"

Graves' fingers twitch and he's not entirely sure what about the words strikes the chord, _home_ , or the earnest way Scamander speaks it with, but suddenly Graves wants nothing less than to go home. "No, I was… heading out to get a late dinner, actually," he lies and looks at the man. "Would you like to accompany me? My treat – as apology for misleading you."

Scamander startles at that and actually, astonishingly, meets his eyes. "Um, really?" he asks uncertainly.

"I am actually curious about the swooping evil venom," Graves offers. "Seeing that we have very few studies on it, I'd like to know what sort of… results have you had with it."

"Oh, well, I can definitely do that," Scamander says, still looking at him unsurely. But it's not the wary _guilt_ that seems to permeate the entire MACUSA of late – it's more personal. Not a man who eats out a lot, it seems.

"Come on," Graves says and turns to leave. "I know just the place and it's not far."

"Alright," Scamander says and follows.

* * *

 

Eating out with Mr. Scamander turns out to be a both unusual and surprisingly pleasant experience. The man is a little uncertain with the setting, nervous with the other patrons and he all but flinches away from the waitress as she brings them the menus, but aside from that me makes decent enough dinner companion.

It turns out the reason Scamander isn't concerned about the borderline criminal misconducts of MACUSA and the whole Grindelwald debacle is because he leads frankly terrifying life. And, apparently, he met the swooping evil when it tried to devour his brain.

"Well, that's swooping evils for you, the name is a bit harsh but not without cause," the man says, fiddling with the menu. "That was when I got the inkling of the venom's effects too – she bit me, you see, and the effect was very fascinating. After I'd captured her I asked the locals about them and they had the most interesting stories."

Of having their brains almost eaten, Graves wonders dubiously while spreading the napkin over his lap. "I can imagine," he says, though his imagination is coming up with some gruesome pictures. "So you captured the creature and extracted it's venom?"

"Well not at first – I had to figure out alternative diet for her, as well as a habitat – well that in the end wasn't necessary, but regardless. It took some time before I came round to testing the venom," Scamander says and peers at the menu. "After that I worked on proper dilution. One to ten turned out to be about right."

"And the effect is permanent?" Graves asks.

"Has been so far," Scamander answers. "I wrote down all the memories I knew I'd lose, I even took them out and stored them in phials for a while – but without a pensive, they eventually faded. I haven't gotten them back – all though I have gained some peripheral recollections that were less unhappy."

"Unhappy?"

"The venom erases specifically bad memories," Scamander says and looks up. "That is the only reason I dared to even attempt it on an entire city – and as it is that solution was diluted even further, so it only covered only recent memories, over the last day or two."

Graves nods slowly, glancing over his menu and then setting it down. "Have you had any other side effects to it, aside from the memory loss?"

"Not that I know of," Scamander says and glances up. "You know, diluted even further and mixed properly with other agents, it might have dampening effect on bad, traumatic experiences. Not a total erasure but rather more natural… softening."

Graves frowns a little at that, looking at him – making the man quickly look down. How much had the man figured out, how much did he see? "You know you really shouldn't be tempting the Director of Magical Security to use untested, mind altering potions," he says, with some amusement.

"Probably not," Scamander agrees, embarrassed, and all but hides behind his menu.

Graves smiles a little at it. So sincere. "What else have you tested on yourself?" he asks with interest.

Scamander glances up and he looks a little flushed now. "Oh, little this and that," he says and then offers a smile. "But I probably shouldn't be talking about any of it to the Director of Magical Security either."

The waitress comes around again and they order – Graves going for order of tomato soup while Scamander orders roast beef.

The Brit then looks over the menu again and then shakes his head and sets it down. "Strange, to have dinner with no wine," he explains with a shrug.

"We could go to a speakeasy," Graves offers and smiles slightly at the face Scamander makes at the suggestion. "Perhaps not, then."

Scamander smiles sheepishly and then glances at him, at his arm in the slight. "May I ask why that hasn't been healed?" he asks quietly.

"It was," Graves says. "As much as it could be. The bones were… damaged rather badly," he says, by which he means that his arm was hanging on by a thread and couple days more and it would've had to be amputated. "There are limits to how far you can push a bone to heal with magic – rest the body has to do on it's own, or so the healers say."

"I suspected it was something like that," Scamander says, looking thoughtful. "Should you be working, with that level of injury?"

Graves' fingers curl into a fist before he can stop them, and quickly he relaxes his hand again. "My department is a mess," he says with a scowl. "The longer I wait the worse it will get. Better sort it out as quickly as we can so we can start dealing with the aftermath."

Scamander eyes his arm for a moment and then looks down. "I wish I could help."

"You're not even a citizen," Graves says and shakes his head. "There's no need for you to feel obligation. If anything, you've already gone above and beyond."

Scamander glances up at him, frowning a little. "You don't accept help from anyone, do you?"

Graves pauses at that, looking at him. Scamander holds his gaze for a moment before dropping his and Graves arches his eyebrow at him. "I don't ask for help, no. I'm a Director. I _delegate_ ," he says and straightens the front of his waistcoat a little.

He half expects the accusation, the not quite helpful note of _well if you did then maybe you wouldn't get replaced so easily_. No one had said it so far, but he keeps hearing it echoing in the back of his head, murmured in Grindelwald's smiling tones, _oh Percival why would anyone notice? It's not as if anyone knows you…_

The Brit says nothing of the sort, just looks at the table between them awkwardly.

"I'm sorry," Graves offers.

"No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't –" Scamander says and shakes his head, looking up. "It's not my place. I apologise."

Graves shakes his head and sighs. "No, it's… alright," he says and looks away, at the restaurant around it. It's not his favourite by far, but he enjoys the atmosphere of casualness it has. It's mostly a magical restaurant, but it's dressed up as nomaj one – most of the staff are squibs. It gives it a certain feel you can't quite get elsewhere.

Idly he wonders if Grindelwald ever came here, looking like him.

"Grindelwald kept me trapped in my own house," Graves says after a while, his voice low. "Days went by when I didn't even see him – only time he came around was to extract memories and to collect ingredients for his polyjuice potion. I fought him, I kept fighting him. I almost died several times… but he needed me alive."

Scamander gives him a wide eyed look and Graves grits his teeth, embarrassed. It's nothing he hasn't told before – he'd written it all down in his statement. But somehow it's different… to just _tell_ it, rather than to report it. Shaking his head Graves looks down. "I can't stand the thought of going back into that house. Nothing's changed there, he didn't so much as smash a plate, but…"

But he can't breathe there anymore. The air chokes him.

"That's why I'm working," he says and then takes a breath and looks away – the waitress is there, with their plates.

Scamander looks wildly between him and the waitress who, sensing the atmosphere, smiles briefly at them as she sets the plates down. "Roast beef and tomato soup," she says. "I hope you enjoy your dinner."

"We will, thank you very much," Graves says, his voice a little rough, and then she's off and they got food between them to distract them.

Scamander fiddles with his fork and knife for a moment and then cuts into his beef. "Has anyone gone there with you?" he asks, piling the meat into his fork.

Graves glances up at him from his soup and then smiles wryly. "Mr. Scamander, are you asking me to take you home with me?" he asks, amused.

Scamander ducks his head a little, his face going a little red. "Well… yes. I am."


	3. Chapter 3

 

Newt keeps his pace slow as he walks next to Graves. The man's walking has gotten a little slower and little more laborious as they've been going and a while Newt has wanted to suggest apparating, just to save the man the strain he's putting on his no doubt still badly injured knee. But he doesn't.

It's not his shadows they're facing after all. Graves would probably do better facing them his own terms.

"It's a nice sort of neighbourhood," Newt comments, though he really can't tell one way or the other. He doesn't know that much about New York really.

"It's quiet," Graves says, and through his gritted teeth it comes out less like statement and more like accusation. "Usually anyway."

Newt nods, shifting his fingers on the handle of his suitcase before glancing at the man. Bead of sweat on his brow, a vein slightly throbbing at his neck, a sort of pinched, pale tint to his skin – but he keeps going. Idly Newt wonders if it would be too much to suggest…

"I have murtlap essence," he offers. "For – for the knee, I mean. When strained fresh, it can help with deep tissue aches. It might…"

Graves swallows and closes his eyes and then he lets out an impatient sigh. "Thank you," he says. "I'd appreciate it."

Newt nods and looks down. It's awkward, watching someone put themselves through such pain and not being able to do much about it. Maybe that was what Theseus felt, that time Belgium – no wonder he'd been so awkward. It doesn't seem like there is anything he can say either, out of fear of distracting man from the effort he's putting into the whole ordeal.

"I'm fine," Graves grinds out at him. "Stop fidgeting, Mr. Scamander, I'm not about to drop down and die."

"Yes, I mean, no, of course not," Newt says and glances at him. The Auror's cheek twitches – grinding his teeth together now. "Are you sure we can't apparate?" he finally asks, rather plaintive.

"No need," Graves says and nods ahead. "We're here."

Almost there turns out to be a two story house at the end of the dimly lit street, with black metal fence around it and elaborate gate in front of it. As newt watches Graves runs his fingers over the gate, running his thumb slowly over the lock, and it clicks open.

Beyond it there is a lawn that looks like it used to be well maintained, with decorative bushes and even some flowers under the window sills, but which has been allowed to grow out in the last couple of months. Grindelwald apparently hadn't bothered with doing Graves' gardening, Newt muses and looks at the house itself.

It's a fairly normal sort of house, not so different from the other houses on the street. White with black door and window frames, black tiles for the roof, curtains on all the windows. It looks nice, even.

Graves hesitates at the steps of the porch and because Newt is looking for it he can easily discern the slight shake of the man's hand. Looking between him and the house, Newt makes a face. He can't imagine what it might be like. Something like when Grindelwald took his case, but instead of getting it back relatively unharmed he would've found it ransacked, maybe.

"Do you want me to go in first?" Newt offers.

"No," Graves says, startling out of his stupor and then, grimly determined, he steps closer. A touch unlocks the door and Graves pulls it open, his shoulders tight and tense.

Inside the house is dark and somewhat cold, the shadows deep and what few light screens through windows is stark and cold. Newt looks around the forayer and then, tentative, presses his hand on Graves' back.

The man gasps a breath. "It's my own fucking house – why is this so hard?" he asks, sounding furious.

Because it's been violated and turned into a prison, because this is where he hurt you, Newt thinks but doesn't say it. He runs an awkward hand over the man's shaking shoulder and then peers into the dark house. "Maybe we should light the place up a little."

Graves shakes his head and in the end Newt's the one who goes around, at first checking if Graves has electric lighting at all and when it turns out he doesn't, lighting the gas lamps and candles instead. It gives him the chance to snoop around a bit, while Graves leans against the hall wall and just breathes, trying to gather himself.

The house is _nice_. Newt had thought Tina and Queenie had a nice house, and they did sure, but Graves' house has been decorated with obvious intent and theme. Everything is old, dark wood and gold, and the carpets are all match both with their colour and their simple, elegant richness. Newt had always gotten the impression that Graves wasn't exactly in dire straits when money was concerned, but the house just… _fine_.

It's also clean to the point of ridiculousness, every bit of metal polished, not a hint of dust in sight.

Newt lights the candles in the living room chandelier and then heads back to hall, where Graves has his eyes closed and is just breathing, slow and methodical, through whatever is going on in his head. Newt hesitates for a moment and then steps closer. "Your coat?" he asks tentatively.

Not opening his eyes Graves eases the sling off and then moves to shrug off his long coat. With his bad arm it seems bit of a task, so Newt steps in to take the coat by the collar and ease it over his shoulders, wincing a little at the slightly pained breath the man lets out.

"Thank you – just put it over there," Graves says and Newt takes out a hanger from the near by closet to hang it properly. He does the same for his coat, wincing a little when he noticed that he has bit of dirt on the coat hem – he's probably been tracking dirt all over Graves' fine house.

Newt turns to Graves, wondering if he should maybe apologise, to find the man watching him. Newt stops, awkwardly tugging at his waist coat, wondering if he looks rumbled – he probably does, he always looks a bit rumbled. He certainly doesn't look like he belongs in this place.

"I suppose I should offer you a drink?" Graves says, frowning a little as he eases the sling back on, resting his arm on it with a slight sigh.

"If you'd like, it's… really not necessary," Newt says and looks down awkwardly. Now that they're here he's not entirely sure what he's doing. He'd wanted to help and Graves had given him the opportunity – which he undoubtedly did not give to many. But now…

Graves turns and looks at the house. He frowns and hesitates for another split of a second before stepping forward. Newt quickly takes his suitcase in hand, and follows him.

"It's a nice house," Newt offers, because that's what people did, wasn't it, offer compliments for other people's houses.

"I suppose," Graves says, leading him slowly to the living room. It is the nicest room in the house as far as newt has seen – with comfortable couches, a big fireplace and glass cabinets full of all sorts of interesting looking knickknacks. There is also a cabinet there which Newt soon realises is where Graves keeps his spirits – because that's the one the man goes for, all the while wandlessly summoning a pair of glasses from the kitchen. They float over just as the man opens the liquor cabinet.

"What's your poison, Mr. Scamander?"

Newt hesitates and then sets his case down on the floor beside one of the cabinets. "Whiskey – fire whiskey if you have it," he then says.

"I have Dragon Fire," Graves offers.

"That sounds wonderful, thank you."

Graves pours the liquor and then floats it over, letting Newt catch the glass from the air. The man himself hesitates for a moment before reaching out a hand. Handful of logs float out of a case by the fireplace, and into it. They light up in flames at snap of Graves' fingers.

"You're very talented with wandless magic," Newt comments, watching the fire quickly take.

"Levitation and the occasional bit of pyrotechnics," Graves says, his lips twitching into something wry that's not quite a smile. "Most of it's just cheap trickery. Handy, though, when you only got the one functioning arm."

Newt nods slowly, watching him, as Graves turns to him with a glass in hand. "To your health?" the man offers, lifting his glass.

Newt smiles awkwardly and lifts his glass in answer before taking a sip, just enough to feel the heat spread across his tongue. Graves drinks almost all of his in one go, blowing out a small breath of smoke after swallowing.

"I made a conscious effort not to drink when I was trapped here," the man comments, eyeing the glass. "This is only the second drink I've had here since then"

"That was probably very wise," Newt comments and then glances over the man.

Graves shakes his head at that and then walks over. Newt tenses uncertainly, but the man is aiming for the couch instead, sitting down slowly and carefully before straightening out his bad leg with a sigh. "It was stubbornness. If I had spend the time drunk, it might've passed quicker," he muses and sips his drink, glaring at his knee.

"Maybe, but that's hardly healthy," Newt says, fiddling with his glass for a moment before setting it down. "I – could get the murtlap essence, if you'd like?"

Graves frowns and glances up at him. "If you wouldn't mind," he says then.

Newt nods, grateful to have something to do, and quickly turns to his suitcase, setting it down. He feels Graves' eyes on him the whole time as he opens the case, to reveal the top of the ladder. "I'll be back in a moment," Newt says and Graves salutes him with his whiskey glass as Newt hurries down.

It's weirdly guilty feeling, to go down into the suitcase in such situation. His home remains his sanctuary, for him and all of his creatures, but Graves home isn't anything of the sort to him. While checking his phials and looking for the most resent clippings of murtlap tentacles, Newt wonders if Graves would end up moving. Probably.

Easing his tie open and pushing his sleeves up, Newt quickly minces the tentacle clippings before getting out a strainer. With bit of gentle pressure, he has ounce or two of the essence strained into a phial, a bit of aloe vera and peppermint mixed in for a nice cooling effect. Quickly Newt tests the mixture on couple of his own wounds – the ragged edge of scales at his hip which cuts a little into the soft skin of his belly and his left calf which always aches a little bit – and it works perfectly well.

Before heading back up, Newt checks to see that the shed door is properly locked and no sneaky mufflers are about to get out, before turning back to the ladder. With phial clutched in hand, he quickly climbs up, hoping he hasn't taken too long.

Graves is still sitting in the same spot as before, but now he's leaning forward, his forehead resting on his palm, his shoulders even tenser than before.

"Graves?" Newt asks worriedly.

The man draws a breath that rattles a little in his nose and looks up. "All done then?" he asks and reaches a shaking hand for the glass – which he has refilled, judging by the looks of the bottle now sitting on the table.

"Yes, I have the essence – are you…" Newt starts to ask and then stops. Of course the man isn't alright, what is he even thinking. "I have the essence," he says again and hops up the last couple of steps, closing the case behind him. "It might do some good to your arm too, if you'd like…"

Graves takes a drink and nods. "I wouldn't mind it," he says, taking a breath and setting the glass down again.

As Newt watches, feeling weirdly anxious, Graves opens his shift cuff on his bad hand and then eases the arm off the sling again. Slowly he eases the sleeve back, and bit by bit the damage is revealed. The skin is more or less intact – but it's swollen and discoloured, splotches of black and blue and sickly yellow in place of healthy pink.

Newt cautiously sits beside him while Graves eases the sleeve as far up as it will go – the terrible, terrible bruises cover his entire arm and elbow all the way up to his upper arm. No wonder he needs a sling – and yet, using the sling must hurt too, Newt thinks desperately, while taking out his handkerchief and pouring some of the essence on it.

He doesn't think twice about applying the salve himself, and Graves doesn't stop him, watching him spread it gently over the discoloured skin in soft, careful circles.

"I'm not sure if I made enough," Newt admits worriedly.

"It's fine – that's… that's already better," Graves says, taking hold of his own wrist to keep his injured arm up for Newt to apply the salve to. "Just, save some for my knee."

Newt nods and carefully covers every bruise with the salve, trying desperately to not apply too much pressure. The man's arm is almost completely hairless, he notes absently. They must've removed all hair while fixing it.

"Um, your knee – can you…?" Newt hesitates, glancing down.

Graves takes a breath, considering it and then shakes his head and shifting forward and easing his shoes off. Then he stands up. Newt stares at first, weirdly breathless and then quickly looks away – Graves is undoing his belt now, easing open the buttons of his trousers.

Then Newt sees the mans knee.

"You shouldn't be walking at all, should you?" he whispers.

Graves falls to sit with a grunt and eases the bad leg out of his trousers, stretching it out with a wince, resting his ankle on the table. "Probably not," he admits. "But they didn't tell me I couldn't, and it does hold my weight… most of the time."

Newt shakes his head and then applies the murtlap essence directly onto the gruesome amount of bruising. He wants to ask what on earth happened to it, what had Grindelwald done – jumped on it? But he doesn't dare, and instead just makes sure to get the essence as thickly over the damage as he can manage, running his fingers gently over the swollen, hot skin of the man's knee. Then he dips his fingers around the man's leg, to apply the salve behind the knee as well, rubbing it in with circling motions until Graves sighs.

He's on his knees between Graves' legs and the table by the time he's finished, something he realises only after he's spend good five minutes there.

"Um," Newt says, awkwardly withdrawing his hands.

"Thank you," Graves says, watching him with dark eyes. "That feels much better, thank you."

Newt swallows and nods, looking down – except then he is staring at the man's crotch, covered only by a set of underwear now, and has to quickly look away again. "I'll just - " he mumbles and quickly gets up. Graves keeps staring at him darkly and Newt awkwardly twiddles with his hands – except they're slick and a little numb with the murtlap essence.

Awkwardly he takes his already stained hanky and tries to clean his fingers with it without meeting Graves' eyes. The man keeps staring at him.

"Mr. Scamander," Graves says quietly, his voice low. "Why did you come here?"

Newt pauses between picking salve from under his fingernails. "Because… I want to help?" he offers. "And it's Newt, please."

"Newt," Graves says slowly. "You don't even know me."

Newt shrugs. "Nobody knows anybody until they do," he says. And lately he's figured out just how easy it is to get to know people, really. All you really have to do is put effort to it, something he's never dared to do, before Jacob and Tina and Queenie…

He looks at Graves – at his bruised arm and neat waist coat, the scorpion collar pins… there is still a stiff sort of propriety somehow clinging to the man even as he sits there with no trousers. "And I think I'm learning to know you, a little," Newt says with awkward smile.

Graves watches him silently for a while and then looks down at Newt's hands. He reaches his good hand out and uncertain Newt takes it in his.

"Newt," the man says and pulls him in, to sit down beside him. "Tell me about yourself."

"There's not that much to know, really," Newt murmurs awkwardly, not sure where to look. Graves is _still staring at him_. He thinks it might be that the man is distracting himself from the house around them, or the pain, concentrating onto him instead... but does it have to involve so much eye contact? "And – and you have my file, I think."

"The file only tells the overall story and little of the details," Graves says. "And I think the impression of a _Hogwarts drop-out_ is entirely wrong in your case. You still have your wand too – which I understand they snap, when you are expelled."

Newt coughs. "Yes, well – they did," he admits and takes his wand out, desperate for something to distract _him_ from Graves. He turns the worm eaten, scratched, beaten bit of wood in his hand and fondly runs his fingers over the seam. "Right here," he says and shows it. "I got it a new handle and fixed it – took me several months, but…"

Graves frowns and finally looks away. "You… fixed it?"

"Mm-hm," Newt agrees. "Resin, bit of coral, and lot of patience – and bit of mother of pearl here at the base, to stabilise the result. It was an effort, and I had some mishaps, but yes… I fixed it."

Graves blinks at him and then holds out his hand. "May I?"

Newt sets the wand on his palm and watches the man examine it curiously. "This is one… well worn wand," Graves comments rather diplomatically, examining the pores left behind by woodworms. Newt had switched over to woodlice for bowtruckles after that particular incident – they weren't as keen on wand wood as the larvae of some beetles.

"Barely a wand according to some, but I think it suits me," Newt smiles at the wand proudly. "It works better for me now than it did before as well."

Graves shakes his head, examining the pit of mother of pearl at the end of the wand. Then he hands it back. "You, sir, are a mess," he comments with a sort of wondering disapproval. "Most people would just buy a new one."

"Why? There was nothing wrong with the old wand," Newt says with a little grin, giving it a fond twirl before pushing it back to it's holster. "All it needed was a little healing and then it was perfectly good for me."

Graves looks at him at that, searching his face. Newt meets his eyes for as long as he can manage but it's ever so awkward, meeting people's eyes – soon he has to look away, at Graves' collar instead. The scorpions are interesting, he muses, and opens his mouth to ask about them.

Then he feels Graves' hand on his cheek, fingers dipping under his chin to lift it up slightly. Newt's eyes snap open wide and he meets Graves' gaze with surprise. Graves looks at him darkly for a moment, eyes searching for something and Newt hasn't the foggiest _what_ , but Graves seems to find it because the corner of his lips curls a little, maybe with displeasure, Newt doesn't know but it makes his heart suddenly beat at double pace.

And then Graves kisses him.


	4. Chapter 4

It's been a while, a long, long while since Graves has felt another person pressing against him, felt their lips on his. And this really isn't the time for it, it isn't exactly for the place for it either, but the walls of his house are closing on in him, trapping him in his seat and Scamander, Newt, is the only point of his suddenly claustrophobic home that seems to still _breathe_.

Only the man isn't – he's gone all but solid against Graves, holding his breath and quivering with the effort not to move. Still warm and still gorgeously alive and weird and so unlike everything in Graves' miserable trap of a house, but… still.

"I'm sorry," Graves murmurs, withdrawing. "I presumed –"

"What?" Scamander, Newt, asks shakily, his eyes flickering open. Their colour is murky and messy, just like the man, and his lips are left hanging slightly open, hint of pink tongue flicking to lick at them. He looks stunned.

"I presumed –" Graves tries to say again but Newt is still there, pressed close, staring at him with his eyes flickering to random points at his face. Graves fingers, still on the man's cheek, shift almost by themselves and he touches Newt's lips. They feel just as soft and full against his fingertip and Newt draws a breath – but doesn't pull back. He's not pulling back.

"I apologise," Graves says and then leans in again. Newt's nose presses against his cheek and he feels the desperate inhale the man draws, too deep and slow to quite be a gasp. This time the man has warning, Graves thinks, he could pull back any time – any moment now.

Except Newt doesn't. He shifts, half flailing, but their lips remain pressed together, and as Graves moves to explore that full, lush lower lip, he feels Newt's hand on him. Awkward and clumsy, they touch his chest, as if afraid, unsure whether to push him away or not, and then Graves gnaws gently on his lower lip and the fingers clutch on him.

Newt makes a sound, a muffled objection and Graves pulls back. "No?" he asks, moving his hand to cup the man's hot face, tracing his thump over the freckles. Even the man's skin is a gorgeous mess, he thinks wildly, fascinated by how pale his own skin seems in comparison.

"I don't – maybe?" Newt says, and he looks bewildered. "Just – what? Why?"

Graves shakes his head. Why – because he feels like he's about to implode on himself in this damn house and he wants something different. It's like there's a curse over him and he wants desperately to break it, and only hint of a solution he's glimpsed was in Newt's careless, wild little grin as he spoke of healing things, over replacing them.

He runs his fingers over Scamander's cheek, up to his hair – it curls and prickles at his fingers, thick and little bit coarse. "You feel so real," Graves murmurs in wonder. "It's as if… I'm wading knee deep in cold water and I haven't seen land in months but here you are."

Newt gulps, shaking his head a little. "I'm just – me," he says confusedly.

"Yes," Graves agrees, staring at his lips. "You're definitely that."

He kisses the man again and this time Newt, though still so startled and so confused, leans into it just a little. Graves directs his head a little with his hand, curling his fingers behind the man's ear – there's something there, a rough patch on the man's skin like grit, like dirt. The kiss turns and deepens and becomes hot and wet and delicious and very, very real.

Newt is breathing quicker now, drawing small hitched breaths against his cheek, shaking all over, and all of it's wonderfully visceral, the heath and smell of his breath, the feel of his tight, tense body, his hands clutching a little too hard on the lapels of Graves' waist coat. If his leg and arm didn't hurt so damn much, Graves would've already pulled him into his lap to feel all of it. Instead they kiss over the distance made by their bodies, but that's wonderful too, the feel of Newt pressed against him there, the warmth of his body through cloth.

"Mmmh," Newt hums and pulls back, panting for breath. "I-I don't usually – what should – " he starts to say, his lips lax and clumsy and Graves stares at him greedily as the man shakes his head, trying to regain coherent thought. "I don't usually do this," Newt laughs a bewildered laugh and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it from his eyes, and oh, the way light hits them… "I don't know what to do here."

"You don't have to do anything," Graves murmurs, running his fingertips along the roughness behind the man's ear. A scar, he thinks. Strange place for it.

"You, you want though," Newt says, watching him, shifting closer. The air between them is closed up and intimate and somehow so much freer than the air around them. "What do you want Graves? Tell me? Please?"

Graves closes his eyes for a moment, leaning in and pressing his forehead against the Brit's. What does he want – out of his house, out of his body, out of his fucking life. "To forget," he murmurs and then smiles when Newt takes a breath. "Without mind altering potions, mind you."

"I wasn't going to suggest it," Newt murmurs, tiniest bit petulant, and his eyes are flickering again, going over spot here and spot there and only sparsely glancing at his eyes. "And this, this helps you forget?" Newt asks quietly.

"You're a very lovely distraction," Graves smiles and then looks down. "Don't take it as a request, however. I want nothing you aren't willing to give."

Newt is quiet for a moment, taking in whatever clues he can find in his face. "Hm," he then answers before ducking his head, and then their lips meet again.

It's a wonderful thing, to have the man's full attention. Newt kisses with the skill of a man who doesn't do a lot of kissing, but also of one that is both willing and capable of quick learning. Graves hums into it and leans back a little as the other man pushes forward, curious and eager and experimental. It takes no time at all for him to find a rhythm he likes and angle he prefers and it's strangely gratifying, to feel him explore and discover.

Newt gets up on his knees, leaning over him as Graves leans back against the backrest of the couch. Looking down at him watchfully Newt rests his elbows on each side of his head, closing the space in and hiding the house from Graves' view. "I have to warn you," Newt murmurs. "I have been… through some things."

Graves frowns. "Bad experiences?" he asks worriedly.

"Not when it comes to this," the Brit says and smiles awkwardly, embarrassedly. "Just… things. Ah, it might be easier to…"

Graves watched, quietly appreciative, as Newt quickly moves to unbutton his waist coat, divesting it with a move that falls on the flailing side of smooth. The shirt under soon follows and then he knows just what the man means.

Newt is scarred. At first it looks both worse and better than it seems but – there is something decisively strange about his scars. One of them across his pectoral has a strange jagged quality it – originally sown shut, Graves realises, and not prettily. Another across his stomach, a three long cuts like claw marks, protrude a little from the skin and there's hint of strange colour in them, the skin is a little yellow along them – and it shimmers, Graves realises, when light hits it.

There are other scars too – scrapes and burn marks galore – a long career of handling dangerous animals written all across the man's torso like map. Graves stares at them, wondering about how old they are, and reaches out his hand. Newt says nothing as he touches the three protruding cuts on his belly.

"Why weren't these healed?" he asks, running his thumb along a burn mark.

"Most of them were," Newt says. "But some were made by poisonous claws or venomous fangs and those simply heal differently. And of course, there was time I didn't have my suitcase quite as well stocked as I do these days. This," he touches the jagged, sown cut, "happened before I had it at all."

Graves hums, touching each cut in turn, running his fingers over them slowly. They are all too old to be healed now.

"People… tend to find them ugly," Newt says with an awkward smile aimed at Graves' wall. "I just… figured you should know before we –"

"Newt," Graves says and the man glances at him uncertainly. "I don't care," he says sincerely, and runs his hand up the man's skin, up his warm chest and to his neck, to his chin. "You're half naked in front of me. I care about _that_ more than I care about your scars."

"Oh," Newt says, his eyes wide. He swallows, looks away for a moment, thinking. Then he looks down again. "I really want to kiss you right now," he says breathlessly.

"You don't need a permission for that," Graves says and then laughs as the man leans in to do just as he wants. The eager kiss melts into a softer exchange as Newt closes in on him, elbows resting on the couch again. Graves hum, appreciative, and then takes advantage of Newt's current, shirtless state to touch him, running his palm over his waist and ribs, feeling everything he can.

Then Newt accidentally presses too close and Graves' wounded arm is pinned between them. He'd almost forgotten it, thanks to the sweet, cooling effect of the murtlap essence, and the sudden reminder of just how badly mangled it got is sharp and entirely unwelcome.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," Newt gasps in horror and quickly pulls back.

Graves grits his teeth and then takes a breath. "We should move this to bed," he says impatiently. "Where I can stretch it out of the way."

Newt stares at him, wide eyed. "Oh," he says going a little red. He licks his lips and Graves watches the move with great interest. "Bed," the Brit repeats uncertainly.

"We don't have to," Graves says, frowning. Chances were he wouldn't even be much use there, in the state he was in.

"No, it's just… people don't invite me to their beds often," Newt admits, staring at him in wonder.

"How about this, then," Graves murmurs, smiling a little. "Take me to bed, Newt."

" _Oh_ ," the man says again, even fainter now. "Yes," he then says and blinks. "Yes, alright, of course. Um. Yes."

* * *

 

The first night Graves spent in his bed after Grindelwald was captured and he was released, he hadn't slept a single wink. He'd spent most of the time staring at his ceiling, miserable with pain and panic and unable to muster up the strength to even leave. It was the same bed he'd always slept – it was the bed he'd slept in through his captivity. But in freedom, it felt like a pit of misery, not comfort.

His entire bedroom felt like a cell, rather than someplace where he should be most at home.

Now, sitting on the edge of his bed with eager and watchful Newt Scamander following his every move, it's a different. There is potential of more here now, and not just nightmares. And Graves is pitifully eager for it too, not just to feel something other than pain, but just to… put some of the darkness behind him.

"Can I –" Newt starts to ask, lifting his hands hesitantly, and when Graves lowers his he moves, awkward and tentative, to ease his tie open.

Graves closes his eyes and leans his head back a little, shutting the room out and focusing on the feel of Newt working at his tie, sliding it off. The man gently removes the collar pins, easing them off the fabric and setting them on the beside table judging by the sound of it, before starting to unbutton his vest instead.

Getting the clothing off his aching arm is a bit of a task, and it's sadly not a painless one. Newt shushes him gently when he hisses with it and once the shirt is finally off his wrist, the Brit takes his face between his hands and kisses him.

"Well, at least your trousers are already off," Newt murmurs, smiling faintly against his lips.

"Mm, you are fairly skilled at ridding me of my clothing," Graves agrees, and backs away to lie in the middle of the bed, stretching is aching knee and throbbing arm both out from harm's way. "Your turn, Mr. Scamander."

Newt smiles awkwardly and then unbuckles his belt. It's not very suave either – this man certainly has no idea of how to undress sensually, Graves muses with some amusement. And yet, that makes it better, makes it honest, real.

Last time Graves had sex with a man, it had been with a one entirely too keen on being enticing and pleasing the eye. It had gotten to the point of feeling slightly false, with coy looks and intentional poses that eventually made him seem less like human being and more like a living piece of pin up photography.

Newt is anything but that, all awkward angles and slight stumble as he bends over to get his socks off. It's so far from trying to be enticing that it's borderline hilarious and Graves grins at him a little as he watches the man flail. He really is a mess, an open, awkward mess.

"Come here, I need to kiss you," Graves says and with an awkward little bounce, Newt does just that, crawling over him on hands and knees, carefully avoiding his arm and leg and then leaning down. His body is trembling with eager energy, and he almost jumps when Graves touches him and oh, if only he could trust himself to have a full mobility right now…

"You have scales on your hip," Graves notices curiously.

"Ah, just a few – never mind that," Newt says embarrassedly and then, so awkward and so eager, leans down to kiss him.

Newt it seems has developed a interest in kissing, licking at his lips curiously as a cat but as eager as a dog, diving in the moment Graves gives him an opening. Graves inhales sharply then laughs a little, pushing him back. "There's a difference between kissing and trying to dive down someone's throat," he says with amusement. "And one of those things is not so sexy."

"I guess I have to explore it externally then," Newt says and does just that, ducking down to nose along his neck. Graves expects him to kiss him there too and leans his head back to allow it – but Newt doesn't. No, instead he runs his tongue over his skin and not in any way that might be construed as shy – no, it's no tentative lick but a full on _taste_ as the man laves his tongue over Graves' neck, up his tendon.

Somehow, it goes straight through Graves and like bolt of lightning down to his dick. "Newt," he sighs.

"Mm," Newt hums and then does it again, curious – honestly tasting him. And judging by the sound of he makes, enjoying the taste of him. "You need to drink more water," the Brit comments.

"Are you serious?" Graves groans and Newt laughs – and then mouths along his collar bone curiously.

It's all very playful in way Graves isn't used to being with men. Very few bothered with this sort of exploration, preferring to aim for the main thing, but Newt is in no hurry to move on, exploring him with increasing interest and confidence as Graves does nothing to stop him. It's a bit of a torture too – the man has quite bit of interest for his chest and Graves can't quite _think_ through the attention given to his nipples, never mind the way the man keeps palming his thighs and waist, running his hands over his hips so close and yet so far…

"Newt, please," Graves finally sighs, looking down.

"Hmm?" the man hums, looking up from his navel.

"Just – touch me," Graves says – and is half surprised when the man does just that, wrapping his long fingers around him and pressing his warm, hot, scorching palm against the underside. It's a little awkward, the angle obviously not one the man knows very well, but again curiosity wins the day as Newt aims his attention downwards and quickly figured out what works.

"How's your leg?" the man asks, worming his way to lie on his belly between Graves' legs.

"What leg?" Graves asks with a gasp as Newt finally, finally, starts pumping his hand, slow and dry and little bit gritty and so very _real_. Hissing with the feeling, Graves tugs on a pillow to get it behind his neck so that he can watch, watch Newt watching his dick as he slowly strokes it.

Then, before Graves can voice his appreciation, Newt hums and leans forward, to mouth along the underside. "Newt –" Graves gasps and thrusts his hips forward – and there's the leg, twisting and aching, a blinding flash of pain. "Shit!"

"Shh, shh," Newt hums at him and then leans forward, settling his elbows over Graves' thighs to pin his hips down. "Try not to move," he says. "Let's try and not agitate that knee."

" _Fuck_ my knee," Graves answers, running a shaking hand over his face. "Shit, I'm sorry –"

That's about as much as he can get out before Newt leans down and laves his tongue along his flagging erection, from base all the way to the tip in long, glorious wet and hot drag. His breath washes over the now wet skin like fire and Graves draws a shaky, shocked breath, staring at him.

Newt glances up at him, his face flushed and sweaty, his floppy hair clinging to his forehead and suddenly all of the awkwardness and hesitation coalescences into this one look hot coyness, and Newt gives it while licking his cock.

"Mercy Lewis," Graves breathes almost reverently, reaching out his one good hand to touch Newt's cheek, running thump over his freckled cheekbone and down to his lush lips. Newt leans into his hand and then lets him guide his head until his full mouth his pressed against the head of Graves' cock and _mercy_ he looks good there.

Newt smiles against his cock and Graves almost whines – and then the man dives down on him and _fuck_ the man's mouth is hot. Hot and tight and wet and, yeah, clumsy at first but Mr. Scamander is nothing if not fast and eager learner. It's all Graves can do to stop himself from coming on the spot when the man hums in triumph – and then takes him down to the base without so much as a hint of a discomfort.

"N-Newt – Newt, fuck, get off – I'm going to come if you keep at that," Graves gasps, wanting desperately to thrust up and just take and _take_ , but Newt is holding him down and it's not just him here.

"Isn't that the idea?" Newt asks and Graves shudders at the rasp of his voice, the way his lips gleam, redder and fuller than before.

"This isn't supposed to be a one way thing," Graves says and shakes his head. "Just – come here."

It's gratifying to find Newt a little shaky, his cock hard and hot against him when the man presses on top of him. Graves hums, shifting his hips as much as he dares to, and Newt thrusts against him with a little whine.

"What do you want?" Graves asks, breathless with the feel of him against him, his stomach pressing down on his wet, hard cock. "Newt, what do you want, what do you like?"

"I like this a lot," Newt breathes and leans his head back, thrusting against him again. Graves hisses a curse, staring at him – at his parted, swollen lips, the blush on his cheeks making the freckles stand out even more. Would Newt make that face when fucking him, when being fucked? If his leg wasn't an issue, Graves would be more than happy to try it out.

"Keep going," Graves urges him, running his hand down the man's back, down to his hips, to his behind. He grips the firm muscle there and Newt ruts forward with a breathy little moan, and then, at the urging of Graves' hand, keeps doing it, thrusting up and against him. It makes Graves hip ache a little and his knee twinges warningly, but he doesn't care – fuck, he's so close.

"Yeah, like that," he murmurs, mouthing at Newt's ear. The Brit moans brokenly, fingers clenching against the mattress below them, and thrusts against him again, and again, slow at first but getting a little faster. "Just like that, just fuck me, yeah…"

Graves releases Newt's buttock after a moment and then worms his hand between them to grip first Newt's hot cock in his hand, and then to add his own into the mix as well. Newt stops for a moment, whining, and then starts fucking into his grip. It's still a little too dry and bit gritty, but it's also gloriously real too, viscerally satisfying in way so very few things were.

"Graves, " Newt breathes desperately, staring at him like he's something great and marvellous, something to be admired with such open, hopeless desperation. "Oh Merlin, Graves, _please_."

Graves throws his head back and comes while staring reverently at ceiling of his bedroom, and the walls don't close in on him after all.


	5. Chapter 5

Graves looks better when he sleeps. Not handsomer, exactly, or younger, or even healthier, but just… better. Newt knows it's mostly human nature to find it that way – communal sleeping is associated with safety and comfort, people tend to find their sleeping partners instinctively pleasing in a way that triggers fondness and promotes social bonding. To have someone let their guard down in your presence, that's a sign of trust. It's all very natural and instinctive for people to like it.

But even so. Graves just looks better when sleeping. His face looses the pinched look of barely restrained pain and he's just calm, nothing but calm, all the way through.

Newt isn't quite sure how long he watches the man lay there, naked except for the covers thrown somewhat haphazardly over his waist. Graves' bad leg is out of the covers, stretched to the side – the bruises there still look bad, and his arm is even worse, but for now they don't hurt him.

After a moment Newt gets up, careful not to jostle the bed too much. He pads as quiet as he can out of the bedroom, to find his suitcase where he left him and, thankfully, still shut. Maybe his little beasts got enough adventure running around New York causing havoc, he thinks, as he lays the case down and opens the lid.

Dougal is down in his shed, curiously poking around his potion phials, which means the niffler is probably there too – either him or Pickett, one or the other must've picked the lock. "Morning Dougal," Newt greets the demiguise. "Did the niffler try and get out?"

Dougal looks up from the phials and then looks down. Newt follows his gaze and laughs a little – the niffler is curled up under one of his tables, sullenly clutching onto a half expended golden snitch. Where he even got it, Newt has no idea, but judging by the looks of it Dougal has been keeping him from going up.

"Thank you, Dougal," Newt says to the demiguise and then kneels down to peer at the niffler. "And what are you on about then, hm? Robbing half of the banks and jewellery stores wasn't enough for you, have to try and rob my friend's house too?"

The look the sneaky thing gives him is full of calculated distain, but the way the niffler hugs the golden snitch betrays him.

"Right, back outside with you," Newt says and picks him up. He pats Dougal's head on his way out of the shed. "Well done, you. It's on the top shelf, left of the quills."

Dougal perks up and while Newt ushers the niffler out of his shed the demiguise quickly clambers up the shelves to get the treats Newt had to go through a world of trouble to hide from him. Outside the shed Newt releases the niffler and watches it scurry off before shaking his head and getting about doing his chores.

It's while getting around to the nundu he starts to wonder if maybe he should've put clothes on.

* * *

 

Graves is still asleep when Newt finally comes out of the case, clutching on a fresh new patch of murtlap. The man has a slight look of discomfort – he's turned around in his sleep a little, and is putting weight on his arm. Shushing him gently Newt pushes him flat on his back again and then sits, cross legged, beside him to attend to the arm.

"Well that's a sight to get you up in the morning," Graves murmurs, his voice low and rough with sleep.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," Newt says with a grimace, even as he lathers the man's bruised arm with the essence. "You looked comfortable."

"Mmm," Graves answers and pushes the strands of hair spilling over his dark eyes up with one hand while holding the wounded one up. His eyes track lazily over Newt's form. "You are a morning person," he accuses lazily.

"Guilty as charged, I'm afraid," Newt grins down as he massages his elbow gently. He thinks it looks a little better, the bruising faded somewhat. "How's that?"

"Mm, it's good," Graves says and then reaches out his god hand to grab Newt by the wrist. Newt lets out a yelp of surprise as he's suddenly tucked down and then Graves' hand is cupping the back of his head, reeling in.

The kiss tastes of morning breath.

"I thought you left," Graves admits, running his fingers over his cheek. "I woke up before and you weren't here."

"My creatures – I had to feed them," Newt explains, licking his lips – something Graves watches with sleepy interest. The man is very engrossed in his lips, Newt's found. "They tend to get miffed if I forget a feeding, so…"

"Mm," Graves answers and reels him in again.

It's a while before Newt can finish applying the salve on the man's arm, and while longer before he can get to his leg. He can't say he really minds.

* * *

 

They have breakfast together. While Graves isn't quite as good a cook as Queenie Goldstein with her marvellous strudels, he somehow uses even more magic in the kitchen. He doesn't even bother to use wand for most of it, waving his hand at a kettle to make coffee by itself before eggs appear to crack themselves mid air, frying themselves along with the bacon on the way to the plates. There is a similar quality to the magic as with Queenie's cooking however – a rehearsed, settled feel that made it not a quick of one witch, but widespread talent.

"Do they teach you how to do this in Ilvermorny?" Newt asks with interest, watching his eggs and bacon drop down on his plate. "How to cook without using utensils?

"Don't they teach home economics at Hogwarts?" Graves asks, toasting bread with a _look_ from what Newt can tell.

"Not while I was there," Newt says, fascinated. "Home economics?"

"Hmm… I guess it's all those pureblood families – people expect your parents to teach you," Graves muses. "Ilvermorny has higher acceptance rate of wizards coming from nomaj backgrounds, so most students don't know how to run their own households. Cooking, cleaning, managing finances, that sort of thing."

"That's interesting," Newt says. "The closest to that in Hogwarts is heads of houses giving lessons to kids in special circumstances, but it's not exactly a class."

"Well, Hogwarts is no Ilvermorny," Graves says. "So I guess it's not really fair to compare them."

"How dare you – Hogwarts has the greatest alumnae of all schools out there," Newt says, mildly offended.

"Well that's because Hogwarts is _oldest_ ," Graves says with a slight smile, his expressive eyebrows arched slightly. "It got a head start. Besides, your school expelled you, remember?"

"It was a – it was for a valid reason," Newt mumbles and looks down at the food.

"I'm sure it was," Graves shakes his head and then limps over to the table, coffee pot floating after him. As he sits, cups and silverware float onto the table as well. "Sorry – I don't have tea here – I might have juice somewhere if you'd prefer?"

"Coffee is fine," Newt sighs and then leans his chin in his hands and watches him pour for both of them, directing the coffee pot idly with his fingers. Graves looks better. At ease, Newt thinks. Less like he thinks his house is going to eat him.

"What?" Graves asks, glancing at him. "Something on my face?"

"A smile. It suits you," Newt says, smiling in turn.

"Well, you would know – you put it there," Graves says, not quite embarrassed and Newt grins a little wider. Graves coughs quietly and floats his coffee cup over. "So, ah. You'll be leaving soon?"

"You – want me to leave?" Newt asks, leaning back a little.

"I mean New York," Graves explains. "You told me in your interview that you promised Picquery you would leave inside a week, didn't you?"

"Right, that – yes," Newt agrees and looks down. "My ticket is for tomorrow, actually, on board the Royal Star ocean liner."

Graves watches him thoughtfully and then looks at his eggs. "Tomorrow," he says and then takes a knife in hand, to awkwardly saw bits off his bacon. "I don't suppose you'll be free tonight, then?"

Newt blinks at his food and then glances up. He had wanted to go out and look for Credence – something he'd been doing most of every day since the incident at the underground. He was certain the young man was still alive, somewhere – sure he had seen a shred of obscurus heading away, something that was only possible if the host still survived. Without one, it should have dispersed…

"It's… fine if you have other plans," Graves says, offering him a smile. It seems honest, he really doesn't mind, but at the same time he looks disappointed. Disappointed not to get the opportunity to spend time with him?

Newt tilts his head a little. Even now he's not sure what the man sees in him. No one seems to see much in him – before Jacob, Queenie and Tina, Newt was sure people could only find him irritating at most and a nuisance at worst. But Graves seems to honestly like him.

"Maybe… in the evening," Newt offers hopefully. "Do you intend to go to work today? We could meet up after…" he trails off tentatively.

Graves smiles and it lights up his eyes. "Yeah, we could. After work."

* * *

 

Later, after day spend running through what felt like half of New York's alleys, Newt waits by the MACUSA building, idly picking dirt from under his nails. Thoughtful he stares out past the doors of the Woolworth building and at the people passing by.

No luck with Credence that day either, and the feel of the obscurus is fading from the city now. It could either mean that he had finally dispersed entirely, or that he'd coalescent into physical form, and left the city. Either way, Newt doesn't think he can find him anymore. Honestly, he isn't sure the young man wants to be found.

"Newt?"

Newt looks up to see Tina walking towards him, curious look about her face. "What are you doing here – shouldn't you preparing for your trip tomorrow?"

"I'm, ah, waiting for someone," Newt admits and then looks her over. "Actually – good thing you're here, I have something for you – I wasn't sure if I'd be able to pass it onto you…" he says and quickly rummages through his pockets until he finds the notebook he'd copied some of his notes to. "Here."

"What is it?" Tina asks. "Your book?"

"No, it's my notes on obscurials," Newt says and she pauses minutely before quickly opening the book. "I… well, if it happens, if something… turns up…" he trails off, not quite willing to promote the theory of Credence's survival in the building of people who tried their hardest to kill him. "Well, if _something_ comes up, I'd rather you have all the information at hand. So I made copies of my notes."

"Right," Tina says slowly, looking between him and the book. "But aren't you going to be publishing your book soon?"

"Yes, but…" Newt looks down at his hands. "I don't think I'll but anything on obscurials in it, to be honest. In light of Grindelwald…  it doesn't seem right."

Tina looks at him and then at the book, leafing through the pages before closing it. "Thank you," she says. "I don't know if I'll ever need it – I hope I won't, but… thank you."

Newt nods, watching her. If Credence would appear for anyone, it would be her, he thinks a bit wistfully. He wishes he could be there to see it. "Who knows maybe one day you'll be more of an expert than I am, and we'll compare notes," he says and then trails off. It's a foolish dream maybe, to find Credence here, with the Goldsteins, but he thinks he'll hold onto it anyway.

Tina smiles at him bemusedly and then looks up. "Sir," she says, her body language turning guilty and awkward and Newt looks up a swell.

Graves is coming down the stairs, gripping the handrail for support, his pace uneven with the limp. "Goldstein," he says and then looks at Newt. "You haven't camped down so you must've not been waiting for long."

"Just ten minutes or so," Newt says embarrassedly and then flushes with Tina turns to him, her eyebrows arched.

"I thought you were done with the hearings, Newt," she says curiously.

"I am, I think," Newt says, squirming a little, and then grabs his suitcase standing up. "I ah… well… We have a, um…"

Graves arches his eyebrows at him and then shakes his head. "I think the word you're looking for is _date_ ," he says with some amusement and turns away, just in time to avoid Tina's incredulous look. "Speaking of which, I made reservations and we really should be going."

"Right," Newt says, feeling flushed up to the roots of his hair, looking between him and Tina and then settling on not looking at either. "Sorry, Tina – have to go. It was, ah, it was good seeing you."

"Yeah, you too. Um. Enjoy your – date?" she says, her tone a little bewildered and looks after them, clasping the notebook in her hand,

Newt ducks his head and then quickly hurries after Graves, glad to have the excuse for not explaining it further. Graves watches him with some amusement and pushes the doors open. "I hope I didn't embarrass you," the man says.

"Hardly," Newt says, glancing at him uncertainly. "It's just… a date?"

Graves gives him a look. "Newt, we went out on a date _yesterday_ , you realise that, right?"

"Oh, did we really?" he asks, surprised. "Oh, we did. I didn't realise, no – I don't have much experience with things like these."

"I'm starting to realise that," Graves chuckles and somewhere behind them, Newt can hear Tina making a little strangled, incredulous sound.

* * *

 

The next morning, after a lovely evening and even lovelier night, Graves walks him down the piers of New York harbour and towards the ocean liner waiting for it's passengers. Newt watches him side eyed, a little satisfied and a lot wistful. The man is walking easier now, and Newt not so modestly believes it's all because of regular infusions of fresh murtlap essence.

It's nice to see Graves in less pain – and yet, it's a little bit of a shame too, because with the pain lessening the man had grown a bit more… confident. It looks good on him, when it's natural rather than forced for appearances sake. And Newt rather regrets not getting he chance to see the man in full health – and full confidence – when already he was a little bit more radiant with it.

"Happy to see the last of New York?" Graves asks, amused at his staring.

"Not hardly," Newt says, and they stop at the base of the pier. The _Royal Star_ rests heavy and colossal on the waves, people boarding it with their suitcases and bags, eager to get on board. "It has been… quite bit more exciting than I was expecting."

"I bet it has," Graves says, looking at him and smiling. "It will be bit more quiet without you here, I think. You, Mr. Scamander, attract trouble."

"Oh, hardly _attract_ ," Newt says, smiling awkwardly at Graves' collar. "It just… happens to happen."

"Happens to happen a lot around you, from what I can tell," Graves says and shakes his head. "Never mind that. I wanted to thank you. For… these last two days. For, well. Taking the time to try and fix me."

"I did no such thing," Newt says embarrassedly. "You don't _need_ fixing."

"I do a little," Graves says and looks away. "Don't lie, I might not be as much of a mess as you are, and you really are one hell of a mess… but I'm not quite as well as I'd like to be. It's going to be a while before I'll be back to my old strength. You helped me get started on that, though, so… thank you."

Newt nods, awkward, staring at Graves chest. The man sighs and reaches out his good hand, lifting his chin with two fingers, making him meet his eyes. "Thank you," the man says seriously.

Newt presses his lips together to stop them from quivering – the last time Graves had held his chin like that they'd been in bed and oh, that was a memory he was going to cherish. "You're… welcome. But it's not as if I didn't get anything out of it, you know," he says, and smiles, embarrassed and enthralled in equal measures. "Trying to fix you, if such thing is even needed, is not exactly unpleasant task."

Graves smiles. "You are really quite something else," he muses warmly. "It's been a pleasure, Newt. Try and stay out of trouble."

"Yes. No trouble for me in a while, I'd say," Newt says and looks away when Graves releases his chin. "I'll be locked up indoors for a while, I think, finishing my manuscript…"

"Your book on beasts," Graves agrees. "I'll look forward to seeing it on the shelves."

Newt smiles at nothing in particular. "I could…" he says, glancing up awkwardly. "I could deliver you a copy," he offers hopefully. "If – if that isn't too bold."

"Mercy Lewis with you, man," Graves sighs and Newt quickly looks down embarrassedly – and then Graves is kissing him, utterly heedless of the fact that they're in the middle of a muggle harbour. "I've had you naked in my bed, I've had your cock up my _ass_ ," Graves grinds almost harshly in his ear. "You can stand to be a bit bold at this point, don't you think?"

Flushing no doubt bright red, Newt only barely manages not to wibble at him like a simpleton. "Ah, yes, um, right," he babbles, arms flailing a bit before settling on the man's lapels. "Right, um. Yes," he says again and then meets Graves' eyes. "I'll, just, um?"

Graves shakes his head, and kisses him again. "Send word ahead," he says, "when you come."

"Right," Newt says, staring at him.

"Actually, you can write me even before that."

"Right," Newt nods earnestly.

Graves sighs in exasperation and kisses him again.

Newt ends up having to confound most of the muggles on board his ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, that's the story. Thanks for reading and commenting :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Fanart] to the fic slow and abrupt change](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10222355) by [Wolf_Charm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_Charm/pseuds/Wolf_Charm)




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